


A Hundred Years, A Hundred More

by tattedmariposa



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-28
Updated: 2011-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattedmariposa/pseuds/tattedmariposa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History and legend, fact and rumor – all agree that the desert wolves have forever been in the care of the same family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hundred Years, A Hundred More

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the fe_contest community on Livejournal. The challenge was to write something based on the song "Woman King" by Iron and Wine in a 500-word limit - hence the short word count.

Long strips of cloth, crisp and slightly translucent, catch the early red sunlight as Nailah winds them around her fingers and wrists, her toes and ankles. One by one, tighter and tighter. She takes a moment's comfort in the familiarity of the routine, unchanged since she was a child.

Her heavy necklaces and flowing skirts have been stripped away, and she prepares to replace them with the loose pants and tunic that have been left in the changing room for her, just as she has been instructed. The fabric is coarse, the garments more than a bit too large, meant for one of a broader build. She slips into them anyway.

With the mollifying comfort of ritual departed, unbidden thoughts pass through her mind as she dresses. History and legend, fact and rumor – all agree that the desert wolves have forever been in the care of the same family. Her thoughts are as myriad and unsettling as the voices that whisper about her – and what she is about to do – when their owners think she is not listening.

The sound of footsteps approaching the room makes her tense; a slight rap upon the wooden door sounds as she pulls the oversized tunic over her head. She requests a few more moments, and exhales as the attendant assents and disappears down the hallway of the arena.

Deep in her mind, the whispered misgivings return and replay as the hems of her too-long shirtsleeves are rolled. They speak, as she ties her silver hair back, of the single time in her nation's history the king's choice of heir was challenged – unsuccessfully.

She shakes her head as though the action could dispel her thoughts, and decides to stretch once more, despite the fact that she has already done so. Despite the fact that she will be given time to do so once more before the match begins. Legs extended, hands outreached, she cannot help but wonder what the next hour will bring. Muscles faintly aching, she thinks of her opponent: the cruel set of his jaw, his eyes flashing in temper, their many disagreements. His volatile demeanor, so unlike that of his father. The fact that he has never been bested in a fight.

Standing straight, she draws a deep breath, abandoning her failed distraction. A few paces to the washbasin in the shadowed corner to splash a bit of water upon her face, and the implicit femininity of the floral design upon the porcelain feels slightly absurd. Wiping away the water, she breathes deeply, catches a glimpse of herself in the small mirror pinned to the wall, anonymous in her dull uniform – yet the softness of her face, the curve of her lips remain.

Facing her reflection, she banishes everything from her mind one last time, all the whispers, the questions, the doubts, save for one:

Hatari has never had a queen.

Nailah turns, and with a bound hand she reaches for the door.


End file.
